


run and hide your crazy and start acting like a lady

by goodbyechunkylemonmilk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Body Image, Codependency, F/F, F/M, Familial Abuse, Families of Choice, Fantastic Racism, Haircuts, Homophobia, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Misogyny, Names, Rule 63, Running Away, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Symbolic Haircuts, cis girl!James Potter, cis girl!Sirius Black, cis guy!Lily Evans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodbyechunkylemonmilk/pseuds/goodbyechunkylemonmilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Callidora has a talent for memorizing minutiae, and it means nothing and everything at the same time. (Cis girl!Sirius, an unhealthy love story.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	run and hide your crazy and start acting like a lady

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for suicidal thoughts, self-harm, and ableism.

The Black family library is big and Callidora is driven; she knows its ins and outs by the time she turns eight. Her favorite book is one of names, a large, self-updating tome that catalogs all purebloods of appropriate status. Each entry, along with a date of birth and abbreviated genealogy, has paragraphs on the origin and meaning of each name. Callidora sits alone, legs tucked under her chair, fingers tracing words so she doesn't get lost in barely-legible lines of text. Names speak to expectations—beautiful gift, little king—and though she thinks she is destined for rebellion, for now she commits to memory the ideals of her ancestors.

_Bellatrix_

_The feminine form of the Latin word “bellator,” warrior, from “bellum,” war. … This star marks the left shoulder of the constellation Orion, and is one of the four stars of the constellation used for celestial navigation, and is the twenty-seventh brightest star in the sky. It has no stellar companion: researchers have been unable to find anything that has a motion comparable to Bellatrix's._

 

Her name is Callidora and that means beautiful gift. Her name is Callidora and she _is_ a beautiful gift. Her name is Callidora and that is all she ever hears. “Cross your legs, brush your hair, smile. You're a beautiful girl; act like it.” Her parents show her off. Understated yet elegant robes, adult hairstyles, subtle makeup. They take her to parties and the sycophants coo that she looks so _mature_ for her age, such regal bearing and she's not even eleven. She has a dark, vaguely intimidating beauty that Andromeda and Narcissa can't hope to achieve, reminiscent of Bellatrix, who is older and remote and intolerant of cooing, who has eyes narrow and dangerous ringed with black.

Callidora's parents throw a grand party the night of her eighth birthday, but no one bothers to pretend it's for her; she has to be in bed an hour after it starts and three before it ends. Everything about this party is muted, _adult_ , and she's pretty sure if she positioned herself properly, she could blend into the walls in her silver silk robes. The only children around are related to the actual guests, who are primarily upper-level officials in the Ministry, and therefore even more boring than regular adults. (Callidora learns young the word _bureaucrat_ , and relishes its sour taste in her mouth.)

Her parents take turns steering her around so the other can schmooze. (She may be a beautiful gift, but she is also a problem child.) Whoever has their hand on her shoulder hisses reprimands in her ear: hold your head up, take smaller steps, _smile_. Regulus isn't allowed to be near her for fear they'll have fun, but she knows from experience that he is being asked about his studies and whether his magic has manifested, while she gets, “Aren't you pretty?” A waste, because she is smarter, more talented, and not allowed to answer _yes_ to that question, which, she has been assured, is rhetorical.

Callidora decides early on that since she's not allowed to be intelligent, she'll simply have to be unnerving. So at the party, once her parents have been distracted by murmurs that the minister is coming, she chooses a target, Charlus Potter, who sits alone at a table nearby, nursing a drink. His robes are a dark blue that seems traditional at first, but when the light glances off of them, they shimmer. Despite her parents' efforts to the contrary, she is drawn to gaudy things.

“Hello.” His voice doesn't go high and treacle-sweet the way some of the others' do, and she appreciates it. “Are you the guest of honor?”

“No,” she says without thinking, ruining his attempt at optimism. Then, as an explanation, adds, “I've heard the minister will be in attendance.” She meets his eyes solemnly, giving no hint as to whether she's joking.

“Well.” He squints at her for a moment, but otherwise continues as if she's done nothing odd. “Still, you're eleven. That's a big one.”

“I'm not eleven.”

“Really? I thought you were going to be in the same year as my Jaye.”

“I was born a couple minutes before midnight. So I won't be eleven until 11:58. I'll be in bed then. My parents will be down here trying to chat up the minister.”

“Ah.” She's used to people looking for an escape just about now, but he just grins and offers his hand for her to shake. “Oh, I just realized, I never introduced myself. I'm—”

“Charlus Potter. Married to Dorea Potter née Black, who is the only reason you've been invited, as the Potters are notorious for not falling in line with pureblood ideology.” Her tongue trips over the long word and she flushes, furious with herself, and begins to speak more emphatically. “You mentioned your daughter Jaye, turning eleven in about six months. Traditional purebloods are angry about her name, which they consider inappropriate for someone with a bloodline as illustrious as hers, particularly because it was popularized due to an American muggle.” She pauses, and it makes her sound shy where usually she is too brash. “I like it.”

“You're very impressive.” He says this not in the condescending way she's grown used to, but with a sincerity so unfamiliar it makes her shrink. She wants to explain that this is nothing, that her magic manifested unusually quickly and unusually powerfully, that she borrows her parents' wands when they aren't looking and has already completed half of the first year texts, that she's going to be the best witch the world's ever seen.

But kindness humbles her, so she says, “Thank you,” instead of “I know.” Then, “Is Jaye here?” Jaye Potter is a small girl, all scrawny limbs and knobby knees. She wears glasses so thick they make Callidora's eyes ache, and her robes constantly seem to have a large, fresh stain on the front. She is attractive by no standard Blacks are taught to abide by, and yet so unselfconscious that Callidora has never quite managed to hate her. Callidora has also noticed, with a significant amount of resentment, that Jaye gets to pick her own outfits even if the minister is rumored to make an appearance, and has, memorably, shown up in robes covered in tiny golden Snitches, a tacky choice made even more shocking by the fact that Quidditch-themed clothing isn't made for girls.

“She's with her mother.” He gestures vaguely and Callidora spots Jaye wearing the snitch robes from before. (Another faux pas: repeating outfits is not acceptable.) “Do you want to go speak to her?”

Callidora considers, but Jaye is smiling and talking with people their own age and her robes are dirty but her parents don't bother to drag her away. “Maybe some other time.”

“We'll be having a party for her in...six months, you said? Not as fancy as all this, but I'm sure she'd be pleased if you attended. Jaye always likes meeting new friends.”

“That sounds nice.” She means it, thinks there's probably some potential and plans to work her way up, but Jaye sets off a dungbomb not ten minutes later, and the Potters are summarily stricken from any and all guest lists. The invitation, as far as Callidora knows, never comes.

 

_Orion_

_Although the meaning is unknown, this name is related to the Greek word meaning_ _“οριον”(horion)_ _boundary, limit. ... This is the name of a Greek hunter of legend killed by Gaia, the ancient goddess of Earth, for his pridefulness._

Callidora's parents take her to King's Cross and she is struck by their ability to drain any sentimentality from meaningful moments. They do not hug her. They do not smile or frown or act like this day is at all out of the ordinary. Right before she gets on the train, her mother grabs her by the shoulders, meets her eyes, and speaks in a tone low and scolding. She is Callidora Walburga Black. She is the elder child. She has an obligation to the family. And, intoned more as a warning than a compliment, she is a beautiful gift. (She is not to speak her mind or think for herself; she is not an intelligent gift, after all.)

And then she walks into a compartment that looks empty only to find Jaye. They've never spoken, and Callidora doesn't know if Jaye even recognizes her. Jaye was the girl hiding under tables and planting dungbombs, and Callidora was the one with a steering hand at her back, smiling and not speaking. Now they're both just students, except that Jaye's still the girl with the dungbombs, standing on a seat to shove one in the luggage rack.

She glares. “Are you going to tell on me?'

“No. But can't you think of anything more original than dung bombs?”

“Dungbombs are a classic.” Jaye stops fiddling with it and turns to look at her. “What's your name again? Callie?”

“Call me that again and I'll throw you out the window while the train's moving.” Jaye laughs and then, without warning, grabs her arm and tugs her out of the compartment, slamming the door shut behind them. “What are you—” Part of Callidora wants to think that this is incredibly childish, but mostly she is somehow, inexplicably, charmed. Jaye continues to pull her along and into a compartment several doors down.

“You won't want to be in there a couple minutes from now.” She winks and takes a seat. Callidora, vaguely awe-struck, follows her lead. “We used to go to your family's parties.” Jaye makes a face. “They were awful.”

“I remember. You set off a dungbomb and we couldn't use the ballroom for months.” Jaye grins, and Callidora wants very badly to wipe it off her face, mostly because of just how badly she doesn't. “I got in trouble for not stopping you. My brother and I did.” She doesn't have qualms about lying, but when Jaye seems to deflate, it is not, after all, particularly satisfying.

“What? But that's not—”

“Fair? No, it wasn't.” She folds her hands in her lap and focuses on looking superior.

“I'm sorry. If I'd known—” But Jaye doesn't get to finish, because in the middle of her sentence, the door opens and two students walk in. She clamps her mouth shut and frowns, apparently unused to being interrupted.

“Hello.” Both of the new arrivals look uncomfortable, but the redheaded one makes a point of smiling. “I'm Lyle, and this is Severus.” He gestures to the boy lurking behind him, who sneers even though he knows nothing about them. “All the other compartments seem to be full; is it all right if we sit here?” His voice shakes, but set of his shoulders gives Callidora the idea that he plans to stay no matter what their response is, so she nods. “All right then.”

They sit in awkward silence for a moment as Callidora works to suppress the hostess instincts that have been so deeply ingrained in her. She ought to introduce herself—Lyle is staring at her in confusion—but she will not regress to who her parents expect her to be. She's at Hogwarts and starting anew and she will not—

“My name's Jaye, and she’s Callidora. What houses do you two want to be in?” Jaye's peppy and loud and apparently completely unworried about people's perceptions of her. They are ostensibly waiting for a reply, but Callidora focuses on her instead.

“Slytherin,” says Severus, like he's speaking for both of them.

“Oh.” Jaye makes a face reminiscent of the one she made when thinking of Black family parties. “Really?” Turning to Callidora like she's complicit in this, she says, “Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?”

“My whole family's been in Slytherin.” Which Jaye should damn well know, even if the Potters make a point of not being too involved in pureblood society.

“Shame. I thought you seemed all right.” That simple statement sends her reeling in a way it really shouldn't. She has never had a friend outside her family before, has maybe never had a friend at all, and the fact that Jaye _thought she seemed all right_ though they've barely talked is mind-blowing. (Further removed from the situation, she will see it as a joke, but for now, she is lost.)

“Well, I'm not really one for tradition. Where do you want to go?” She worries that the two sentences together come too close to, “I'll follow you anywhere,” but Jaye doesn't seem to notice anything strange. Of course, Jaye very likely the type of person who simply expects others to follow her, but that's another consideration.

“Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart! Like my dad.” She mimes holding a sword aloft, then, in response to Callidora's grin, thrusts it forward as if into her stomach. Callidora laughs and plays along, falls over dead and lets her arm hang limply from the bench. She doesn't bother to consider what Lyle and Severus will think. They can't be as interesting as Jaye, who is altogether too happy and somehow endearing for it; by the end of the night Callidora has followed her to Gryffindor and there is a Howler in the post for her and she is only a bit scared to find out what it means to not be her parents' beautiful gift anymore.

_Walburga_

“ _Rule of the fortress.” Takes its meaning from the Germanic words wald and burg,“rule” and “fortress.” … Saint Walburga is the patron saint of rabies sufferers._

 

Callidora reinvents herself the summer before fifth year. Andromeda is gone and Bellatrix is getting married and Walburga keeps declaring that it will be her turn soon, and Callidora doesn't say yes, but she thinks it. Regulus shifts in his seat every time, like he knows what she's thinking. Because when Walburga says it, she brushes Callidora's hair back from her shoulders and murmurs about how nice it is, how Callidora will wear it at her own wedding. And she thinks Regulus can see what it means that she slumps as if to escape grasping hands, waits only a few moments before jerking her head away and groaning, “ _Mum_ ,” though she knows Walburga hates it.

She doesn't cut her hair. She tries, gathers it up in a ponytail and cradles it between blades, maybe even severs a few strands, but can't force herself to go further. Regulus is still there, still crosses the hall some nights to sleep in her bed, and they don't talk about fears and inadequacy and what it means to be heir, but she knows. So she reminds her shaking nerves and crawling skin that there is time, that she can stay without losing everything.

She doesn't cut her hair. And it's silly, she knows, to believe that she can rebel in any way she pleases as long as she toes this one line, but she clings to it like a talisman.

She reinvents herself around the limitation, buys boots, knee-length, and cigarettes, unfiltered. She reads an article about a man who enchanted a motorcycle to fly and starts saving up, because if there's one thing she understands, it's the importance of image. So she buys muggle makeup, eyeliner she smudges against clashing powders, lip liner she almost immediately discards, dark red lipstick she wears like a bruise. She buys new clothes, muggle as well, shirts with plunging necklines and miniskirts made of leather to match her jacket. She is, she decides, theatrical and cliché and absolutely bloody breathtaking.

Regulus takes pictures to send to Jaye, and Callidora finds herself grimacing at the camera but simultaneously crossing her arms under her chest to push it up. She acts like she doesn't care, but once the pictures are developed, she goes through and discards everything even slightly unflattering, finally picking just one to send with no explanation.

 

_Regulus_

_Of Ancient Roman origin. A Latin cognomen meaning “little king.” … Also referred to as “the heart of the lion.” … Regulus, a white dwarf, is one of the brightest stars in the night sky and the brightest in its constellation, but it is regularly hidden by the moon. White dwarfs are initially very hot, but as they have no energy sources, they slowly cool until they no longer emit heat or light, turning into cool black dwarfs._

 

It is The Night, her night, finally; two years left of Hogwarts and she is ready to remake her world. She means to be gone before anyone can realize something's wrong, but morning comes and she's still sitting in front of her mirror due to some combination of reluctance, an appreciation for symbolism and a minor mental breakdown. She's packed, at least, for some definition of the word, has three days of clothes, her Gringotts key, and the childhood picture of her and Regulus she's kept tucked in her mirror since the summer after first year. She could take her bag and leave, but she this is meant to be a triumph, not a flight. She should know better, because Regulus never fails to get up early, but when he knocks on her door, she jumps. At two, she dug through her drawers for scissors; now she can see the sun through her window and her watch tells her four hours have passed much too quickly; she decided to cut her hair and lost herself in the implications.

“Dora?” He taps again, lighter. “You were acting weird last night, are you okay? I mean,” his voice takes on a bitter tone, “I suppose you'll want to write Potter about it instead, but I thought maybe—”

“You know I hate when you call me that.”

“You call me Reg.” Which he says while opening the door. She turns toward him, startled, and lets the hand holding scissors to her hair fall.

“How did you—”

“I heard you saying the incantation when you first set the lock.” He moves forward and plucks the scissors from her hand. Confused, she looks at herself in the mirror and understands. She looks wild, eyes wide and hair disheveled and lips bitten bloody. “What's going on?”

“They love my hair.” She can't explain it, can't explain anything past how they fawn over it, care for it, call it (and her) a beautiful gift, while Regulus with his short, neat cut is a little king. Can only think of those things and the scissors and figure they make sense together. She turns to Regulus, who is looking at her with something like doubt and holding his hands behind his back. “They love my hair, Reg. I need to— I need to be my own person.”

“Don't leave. I'll help you with the hair if you swear to stay.”

“Reg.” She forces a laugh. “It's just _hair,_ it doesn't mean anything. Come on, if I left, they wouldn't exactly be able to see it and be angry, would they?”

“I thought...” He crosses and uncrosses his arms, avoiding her gaze. “So you'll stay?”

She swallows her guilt, solid in the back of her throat. “Yes, of course,” and holds out her hand. Instead of giving the scissors back, Regulus steps behind her and look into the mirror.

“How short?” She gestures to somewhere above her ears and expects him to balk, but he only presses his lips together and cuts, stopping occasionally to ask, “Is that good?” and “Really? Shorter?” until finally she's left with a ragged haircut that makes her feel several times lighter.

“Thank you.” She ought to feel free, and she almost does, is burdened still by the way Regulus still stands behind her, presence too heavy to be called hovering, watching her eyes in the mirror. His gaze shifts suddenly, and she realizes he's focusing not on her eyes, but on a patch of glass that now reflects nothing but the lower right hand corner of one of her Gryffindor banners.

“Stand up.” There is something harsh in his voice, something hard that makes her realize her wand is shut away in a drawer. She isn't afraid of him, or of pain, never has been, but she doesn't like losing.

“Reg...” She stands warily, unprepared to be swept into a hug. “What are you— I'm not leaving.”

“Be quiet, Dora. I'm not stupid.” She thinks about objecting again, but then he squeezes her tighter and she realizes she can feel tears on her newly-bare neck. They don't speak anymore, at school or at home, but he's betrayed their parents for this small moment, so she fights down her hard-won coldness and squeezes back.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, so low she hopes he won't hear. “And I'm sorry.” He sniffles, her brother who pretends to be strong, who fears inadequacy more than anything, who must think he is not worth staying for. He sniffles, and she holds him tight before letting go, because the words to explain are hiding somewhere deep inside her and it is not enough for either of them but will have to do.

When she leaves, she takes a knife and scrapes at the nameplate on her door until even she can't read what it says. She burns herself off the tapestry, wand tip illuminated in the dark, and will never admit that the sound she makes is more a sob than a laugh.

_Narcissa_

_Feminine form of Narcissus, the Latinized form of the Greek_ Ναρκισσος _(Narkissos)_ _, meaning “sleep” or “numbness.” … Narcissus is the name of a youth in Greek mythology who was so captivated by his own reflection that he neglected his needs and starved to death._

Callidora doesn't speak when Charlus answers the door, just sweeps by him and, hood secure on her head, finds her own way to Jaye's room. Jaye is just barely awake, her eyes squinting and small without her glasses. “What happened?”

“I think I fancy you.” It's not quite an answer, but Callidora lets it stand; it's summary enough, an explanation of why she couldn't stay, if not why she left. “And I know you fancy me too; I've seen the way you look at me.” Callidora has spotted Jaye's eyes wandering south of her face during conversations, but more significant, she hopes, is the tender expression Jaye gets when she thinks Callidora isn't watching.

“Callidora, I—”

“Admit it.” There's something disgustingly pleading in her tone. “We both know it's true so just please don't—” Because despite her words, she's not sure, is she, has gathered the evidence and reached a conclusion she can't quite believe.

“I don't know if I can— My parents. They expect me to grow up and get married and have _kids_.”

“So did mine.” She knows it's not the same but says it anyway; she gave up a distant, emotionally abusive imitation of a family, while Jaye has the real thing. She's not sure what she would do in this situation either. “But they'd love you no matter what.”

Jaye doesn't have to think about it for very long. “You're right, they would.” She smiles, and Callidora envies her the confidence. It's not just that the Potters are relatively progressive, but that they care about their daughter. She has never once worried about being kicked out. Even now that Jaye is Callidora's only family, she doesn't feel this secure. (Jaye turns out to be wrong though, wrong and completely unprepared to handle it, and Callidora begins to think there is some strength, maybe, in being unloved.)

“It doesn't have to be anything serious. Just for fun, and we'll see where it goes.”

They fall into a comfortable rhythm, and it's not that Callidora's never been happy before, just that she's never been happy quite like _this_. She convinced Jaye by saying it didn't have to be serious, that it could be _just for fun,_ but she knows herself and she knows Jaye and it has never been just for fun, could never have been. They have known each other for years and are each other's everything and this is a natural extension of their friendship. They still spend all their time together, but now when Callidora looks at Jaye and feels this indescribable rush of warmth, she can actually express it instead of elbowing her in the side and making a rude comment. They sleep in the same bed and Callidora has never liked people touching her but (Jaye has never been people) something feels right about Jaye's arm resting on her waist when she falls asleep, about the way she wakes up with limbs wrapped around her in a new configuration every morning.

Jaye's mum walks in on them one day. The cooling charms are being overwhelmed by the ridiculous heat and they're not wearing much more than underwear as they counter-intuitively press together. They haven't been doing anything, but it doesn't look innocent. Callidora has learned to sleep lightly; her eyes pop open as soon as Dorea steps into the room, but she's facing the wall so she shuts them again and decides to let Jaye deal with it. (Which is, she thinks, objectively a bad idea, but the only signs of her in the room are a bag tucked in the corner and a photograph she's taped to the wall, and she is happy, but belonging, she's learning, does not necessarily follow happiness.)

Jaye doesn't wake up until she's been prodded a few times, but finally she yawns, shushes her mother, and drags her out of the room, calm as anything, as if she has not just been caught in bed with a girl wearing almost no clothing. Callidora lies with her eyes trained on the ceiling. She can see, out of the corner of one eye, the picture moving, her smaller self elbowing Regulus and the two breaking out in completely unscripted laughter.

What seems like an hour later, Jaye slips back in. “You can stop pretending now.”

Callidora makes a show of fluttering her eyelids and stretching. “Hm?”

“Prat.” Jaye rolls her eyes. “I told her you have nightmares.”

“But I don't.” She says it defensively, arms crossed and lower lip poked out, because the one facet of stability to which she can lay claim is not having screaming, waking-up-in-a-cold-sweat nightmares.

“That's what makes it so clever. I said it helps you if you don't wake up alone, and that you even have them less when you're with me. I didn't tell her what they're about, so if she asks, you can say whatever you want. I'm sure she won't, but just in case.”

“Oh.”

Jaye's smile shrinks at the response. “I hope you don't mind, but I was on the spot and if I'd said I was the one with nightmares... Well, I didn't just run away from home; it would seem suspicious.” Jaye is content to pretend, apparently, that the only difference between them is _recent_ trauma, so Callidora decides she must be as well, and forces a smile.

“It's fine. Just surprised you came up with something that good.”

“Ha. That'll teach you to underestimate me.” Jaye runs a hand through her hair, ruffling it. “And for future reference, you snore.”

“I do not.”

“Of course not. Blacks are too refined to snore.” Jaye laughs to herself; Callidora rolls her eyes and goes back to not-watching the photo. When she can no longer stand the feeling of memories moving just out of sight, she decides to distract herself with something she can actually handle, and begins to study.

“I think we ought to invite Remus and Peter over,” Jaye says. The book on which Callidora has been practicing wordless magic flies across the room, hits the wall opposite her, and separates from its spine. “Well. That was—adamant.”

“You startled me,” she says, half apology, half reproach. “Why? This is nice, isn't it?”

“Yes, but—”

“Are you mad at me?” As soon as she says it, she knows it's wrong, that this is not how normal people conduct relationships, and that Jaye, who fits very comfortably inside that category, will be put off.

But Jaye answers as if it's a reasonable question and not the raving of her unstable, insecure girlfriend. “No. I just thought it would be fun to have them over. We don't have to.” Then, as Callidora continues to stare, too raw to hide her nerves, she adds, “We'll just see them back at Hogwarts. There's no rush.” Jaye looks at her and mock-pouts. “Don't make that face. I do like this, I _do_. It was just a thought.”

“I'm just— worried. What happens to us when we go back? Here we're fine. Your room is like its own little world, or your room and the orchard behind your house. And we pretend in front of your parents, but mostly we're free to do what we want. At Hogwarts, we share a room with three other girls.”

“We're the creators of the Marauders Map; we know every hiding place in the school. I _think_ we'll manage.” Callidora doesn't respond, just quirks an eyebrow, so Jaye crawls across the bed to sit beside her. “You love me and I love you and we'll make it work.”

Except that Callidora and Jaye, so good at so many things, aren't queens of discretion. Except that Jaye, who is happy and strong and everything Callidora's ever wanted, gets a letter from home once they've tumbled out of one cupboard too many. Except that Callidora, who is beautiful as if that means something, has been evaluated and found wanting. Jaye's parents say that they'll always love her, and it seems, for a moment, like everything will be okay, but then, written in her mother's hand, _we can get you help_. Jaye crumbles, and Callidora knows it's the end.

“I love you,” Callidora says, too soon and too often, because she pretends to be hard and uncaring, but she's not very good at it. Because she is needy and weak and tying Jaye down with everything she can grab hold of.

“It's too much,” Jaye says, and then won't clarify further. She could mean the rumors—borne of their clambering, disheveled, from secret passages—but Callidora doubts it. What she must mean, what she can't help but mean, is that _Callidora_ is too much. She is hot and cold by turns, grasping for scraps of affection and shunning every soft touch. She is everything but cut out for a relationship, everything about worthy of one.

“I'm sorry.”

And Jaye doesn't say anything, doesn't deny the apology or what Callidora knows to be true.

 

_Jaye_

_The feminine form of Jay, a nickname for names beginning with the J sound. Popularized in honor of the American founding father, John Jay (1749-1825). … Jay frequently found himself to be emotional support for his family members._

 

Callidora doesn't like being irrational. It feels like living down to expectations, and she's doubly damned because she's a woman, so people expect her to cry and feel very strongly, and she's also a Black, so everyone thinks she can't control her temper and is hell to get in a fight with. And she is all of that, is happy and weepy and furious, all within the hour. And she loses control and sometimes barely remembers after, picks fights and later feels it like a dream.

She doesn't talk about it with anyone, though they all know. Snape whispers to a friend, “Her parents are cousins, you know; she can't help it.” As if the entire pureblood community isn't hopelessly entangled, but Callidora's mother didn't even have to change her _name_ , so people laugh and agree.

After the breakup, everything changes, except for the part where nothing does. Callidora and Jaye spend almost as much time together as they did before, but now they sound like something out of a bad play: everything Jaye says is stilted and unnatural, trying a little bit too hard (but Jaye has never been one for restraint; she is trying _much_ too hard, all forced laughs and smiles to show that nothing's wrong except everything is, nothing's wrong except Callidora's come untethered). All of Callidora's lines are seconds too late, delivered by an actress who's missed her cue. But Jaye seems convinced they'll get past it, all bracing smiles and carefully platonic pats on the back, and which Callidora does her best to believe.

The only other difference is that Callidora cries in the prefects' bath most nights. It's the only place she can go that Jaye can't, because the password changes and Remus only gives it to her this time. Says carefully, “I think it might do you some good,” and she doesn't thank him but she knows she ought, in much the same way that she knows she never will.

Jaye wouldn't come looking for her anyway, thinks they both need some time apart to adjust, but Callidora finds power in the idea of being a tiny dot on the map that Jaye can't reach.

She never actually uses the pool-sized bath, just cries into her robes and tells Moaning Myrtle to fuck off when she emerges to point out their apparent similarities. Myrtle doesn't have scars like she does, has never sat on a cold, tiled floor and dug her nails into the parts of her body that no one will see, has never hurt herself slowly and methodically in small, secret ways.

She bites her tongue so she won't scream, unsure of whether the room is soundproofed, and her mouth fills with the coppery tang of blood. She wonders if this is what Remus feels like on the full moon, completely feral and out of control. He once raked a claw across his face, four bloody streaks that just missed his eyes, and Callidora looks at her long, bare nails and is pretty sure she could do the same. The feeling isn't new, not even close, but before she had Jaye to serve as a distraction, could envelope herself in lightheartedness, but now her saving grace is what she needs distracting _from_ , and each day she adds new cuts to her arms, bruises to her thighs, almost imperceptible bald spots to her scalp.

She opens the door to find Lyle waiting outside and tugs on her sleeves, even though they're as far down as they'll go. “It's all yours.” But Lyle turns and follows Callidora down the corridor.

“If you're upset about me using it, take it up with Remus; I don't care.”

“This isn't about that. Though selling out the friend who did you a favor, that's—” He shakes his head. “No, never mind. That's not why I'm here.” Callidora freezes, letting Lyle get a few steps ahead of her.

“Were you waiting for me?” One hand is on her wand and she knows it's irrational because she can't hex Lyle out of knowing this, but anything seems better than the conversation she can see coming.

“I spoke to Myrtle the other day. We—got close after O.W.L.s.” Callidora recognizes this as the peace offering it is, because Myrtle's bathroom is the refuge of the broken, though only those whose friends don't have a magical map.

“What did she tell you?” She tugs on her sleeve again, Lyle's eyes following the movement.

“That you cry in the prefects' bath every night,” he says, his voice carefully flat, which is at least better than pitying.

“Nothing else?”

“No.” He doesn't meet her eyes, an obvious tell, but she's too grateful to point out the lie. “I know we aren't on very good terms, but if you want— Or I could get Potter?” Lyle hates her, so Callidora's torn about whether it's a genuine offer or a threat.

“No! Merlin, no.” On some level, she does want Jaye to know, to understand how this is hurting her, but maybe she'd just take it as proof that she's done the right thing.

“Is it about her?”

“No!” Lyle raises an eyebrow. “It has nothing to do with Jaye.” Callidora's voice cracks on her name and it's really just poor timing, but Lyle's mouth turns down at the edges and she really, really, _really_ cannot take pity. Then, to her horror, she's breaking the only Black family rule she's ever actually put any stock in.

“Shit, Black, don't cry.” Lyle looks up and down the corridor like someone will pop out and save him, his hands twisting in on themselves.

“I'm not _crying_ ,” she says, swiping the heel of her hand against her face. “I just—”

“Got something stuck in your eyes?” Lyle smirks.

“ _Yes_. Can you please go?”

“Fine. In a second. I just. You don't want Potter to know and I'm sure you're not talking to Lupin and Pettigrew—”

“So why would I talk to you?”

“Because—” He shifts, balancing on the balls of his feet. “Look, the stuff people are saying about you and Potter—”

“I don't want to talk about it.” She speaks crisply and carefully, emphasizing every word. She turns to leave and makes it a few steps, her heels clicking against the stone floor, before he grabs her arm.

“Black! I'm gay, and besides that I know what it's like to.” He pauses, eyes focused on the door she's just come out of.

“Have a breakdown in the prefects' bath?”

“Something like that. And now I've just come out to you, so at the very least you need to talk to me long enough to swear you won't tell anyone.”

“Of course I won't, Evans. I won't say anything. And.” She crosses her arms. “Thank you for— Thanks. I should—” She tugs her sleeves down again. “I should go, but. Maybe I'll take you up on your offer.”

Callidora starts their first conversation with, “It's not _every_ night, for the record. Myrtle bloody exaggerates.” Lyle grins and does not say that he has seen her go in thirteen days in a row, though he will later tell her that he watched and waited for the right time, that he finally came out of the shadows when he worried the difference of a day might be the difference between life and death. Callidora does not take well to people seeing her wounded, but he will whisper to her the details of an abandoned plan involving weighted feet and the depths of the lake, and she will silently declare them even. “Don't laugh, Evans.”

“I think you can call me Lyle at this point. You're the first person I've come out to, so it's a little sad not to be on a first name basis, isn't it?”

“First? Not Snape?”

“No. I wasn't ready in time.” He rolls his eyes as if it to make it unimportant, but his mouth turns down at the corners.

It takes Callidora a second to make sense of that. Then, “I'm sorry.”

“I'm over it. It's— I'm fine.”

“Right.” And it's not true, she knows it can't be true, because she would never get over losing Jaye, _will_ never get over losing Jaye. She doesn't say anything because they're not there yet, maybe never will be, and he won't point out her vulnerability if she lets his lie.

They dance around each other, always shifting to fit rough edges. Lyle shows her the way his nails are bitten short and ragged, the way he chews his lips until they bleed, and Callidora learns when to contemptuously mutter, “Snivellus,” and when to stay silent. Lyle asks questions like, “How long have you fancied Potter?” and Callidora just shakes her head, then later whispers, “I first spoke to Jaye on the Hogwarts Express,” though she knows Lyle was there, “and she was like no one I'd ever met.” And Lyle offers, “There's a boy. I knew him before Severus, before Hogwarts,” hands cupped around opposing elbows. He's sharp and funny and he calls himself _mudblood_ , supposedly to take the power out of the word, but his mouth quirks when he spits it out and Callidora thinks he's just angry, thinks he wears it like a badge, like a particularly ugly birthmark, like his scars. Like Callidora stores _crazy_ under her tongue, jagged edges drawing pearls of blood.

“She said. I mean, she said that she couldn't— With the rumors and her parents writing to ask, saying they _loved_ her, she couldn't deal. With all the lying.” But Callidora can't make herself believe it, can't reconcile the Jaye who let slip words about nightmares with this one who's afraid, can't find anyone to blame but herself.

“But you don't think that's true.”

“Jaye's never experienced doubt, see? When we first met, she was so confident, and not like my family, not the theatrical, holier-than-thou arrogance I was raised on. Just. Like she was loved. And I can't believe that's changed now.”

“Everyone's afraid of something.” Callidora shakes her head. “What do you think this is then?” he asks, a challenge in his voice.

“I suppose she thought I was clingy.”

“You are clingy.” But Lyle grins, and he's let himself fidget in front of her, so Callidora doesn't mind so much. Then he adds, “It's part of your charm,” and seems to mean it.

“It's pathetic. I mean, she was _right_. I went to pieces.”

“There's nothing pathetic about being hurt. And look, you've probably been too caught up in your side to notice, but Potter's miserable too. According to Marlene, when you're in here, she's lying in bed doing homework. Jaye _Potter._ Doing _homework_. She's been putting on a show for you, of course. Besides, she doesn't seem like the type to be opposed to neediness. She's been your best mate since first year, so she must not mind too much, and relationship or no, that's not changing.” Callidora tries not to let her face shift at that, and maybe the sudden stiffness is what tips Lyle off. “Except you think it will. You think this is her way of getting rid of you. Callidora.”

“I don't—” A hand tangles in her hair, tugging out strands, her more destructive version of Jaye's nervous habit. “I don't—”

“Potter's been moping around almost as much as you for the last few weeks. You two are completely codependent.” Which is stupid; Lyle ought to know better than anyone how quickly things change. Callidora wants to believe him, wants so badly for it to be true that she softens for a moment and Lyle smiles and he will know that she hoped and that she is weak and she can't stand it. “She looks at you like—”

“Like she's worried I'll throw myself in the lake?” Lyle flinches, because that is a detail of his life Callidora is privileged to know, and she is sorry, but not soon enough; she can't claim she didn't mean for it to hurt.

“Black,” he says, and it's the first time in weeks, and she is sorry, not because this means she'll be alone again, but because she's hurt him.

“I'm sorry, I—”

“Don't worry about it.” He smiles through gritted teeth. Their friendship has been remarkably easy, closer to what she has (had) with Jaye than anything else, but now Lyle won't look at her, and he shoves his hands in his pockets and excuses himself not five minutes later.

And if she could survive Jaye leaving then she ought to be fine with Lyle doing the same, but this is the second abandonment and now she is alone, completely and properly alone, and Lyle knew the hidden bald spots in her hair but didn't look at them. Lyle knew when to follow her into the prefects' bath and when to wait by the door and when to grab her wrists before she could even get inside. He was not Jaye, not warm and lighthearted and shielding, but when he told her about being called a mudblood, he joked even as his shoulders hunched and his teeth gritted.

Jaye, timing impeccable as always, approaches Lyle not two days later. It's the first time she's done it since they broke up, which Callidora is spitefully considering an unprecedented display of sensitivity, even though Jaye's never asked Lyle out without a repentant look that she likely isn't even aware of. But there are still rumors going around, and her parents aren't quite convinced, so about two months after the break-up, Jaye gets down on one knee like a muggle bridegroom and asks for a date to Hogsmeade. Jaye is a quick thinker, able to come up with pranks on the spot and counter every spell shot at her in a duel, but she's never quite mastered interpersonal relations, so she freezes, open-mouthed, when Lyle grins, says all right, and leaves her kneeling there. It would be funny except that Jaye likes blokes; and Lyle knows how to lie, has the entire school believing he's happy; and Callidora can see a future in which she's left out entirely.

Jaye freezes, but Callidora follows Lyle as he walks away. “Please don't do this. I messed up, but you don't have to—”

“Have some faith, please.” He steers her into an empty classroom and she sits, legs weak, on top of a desk. “If I didn't want Potter before, I definitely don't want her now I've seen how far you'll go for her.”

Jaye catches up to them then, and she is nervous like Callidora's never seen her, eyes downcast and fingers beating a pattern against her thigh. “Look, Evans. I didn't mean to mislead you. It was more of a joke than anything. I just thought—”

“I'm gay,” Lyle says, fast, like he's comfortable with it, but there's a lilt in his voice at the end, as if it's a question; an almost imperceptible pause between words; a defensive cross of his arms. “The thought of losing you has Black going crazy.” This is meant to hurt her and she knows it, takes it, because she would have said worse. “You told her it was all the rumors going around that made you break up with her. If that's true, then maybe this will help. But she thinks it's that you don't want to be with her, and if _that's_ the truth, then she deserves to know so maybe she can move on.” Which is a very nice sentiment, except Callidora doesn't _want_ to know, would rather live in this uncomfortable limbo than lose Jaye forever.

“Callie,” Jaye says, and Callidora _hates_ that nickname, hates it more than anything, but when Jaye says it, broken and sad, something clicks. When Jaye says it, it is more than a stupid-sounding nickname originally adopted just to bother her. When Jaye says it, it sounds like beautiful could mean something more than high cheekbones and hair she wore like a veil.

“I've told you not to call me that,” she says, but can't manage to put any heat behind it. Because Callie sounds like someone who wouldn't run away because she wouldn't _need_ to run away, who would speak to her brother instead of clinging to his shaggy haircut and unflattering photo as substitutes, who would fall into Jaye's arms without a struggle. _Callidora_ is long and strange and reminiscent of the person she once thought she would be, with eyes narrow and dangerous and ringed with black. Later she will admonish Jaye about the nickname and mean it, but for now she manages to let herself be held, and Jaye strokes her hair and whispers, “You're so stupid I love you I was _scared._ I should have thought. I'm sorry Of course it was going to be bad I'm sorry.” And it's not very romantic and it doesn't fix anything because she's still Callidora, not Callie; she still cries in locked rooms and presses her thumbs in her eye sockets out of stress and trusts no one. She is still Callidora, the girl who comes with no family and much baggage, but Jaye's hands tangle in her hair and Lyle calls them both stupid before leaving, probably to write his boy back home. And Callidora has been happy like this in the past, but her face is pressed against Jaye's neck and she thinks she knows how it feels to be, however briefly, secure.


End file.
